Speak
by Superis
Summary: She can only keep it bottled up inside of her for so long. With every angry kiss, it gets a little closer to release.


**S** p _e _a _k__._

* * *

_**I**_n his opinion, their paths don't cross often enough. He'll catch a glimpse of her on television, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. That raw look of excitement stirring something inside of him. Besides, he simply _loves_ to step in her path. She'll huff and puff, call him childish, whack him once or twice – until, finally:

"_What do you want_?"  
It will come out as a low hiss. It's their ultimatum. It has been for many years. Ever since they first became "rivals," he couldn't deny the attraction he felt every time her top happened to hitch up slightly, or every time she leaned over him to get something. He would feel his breath catch, his eyes grow darker, just at the very thought of being able to touch that creamy skin.

At eleven, of course, he didn't _act_ on those impulses. He shoved them away, ignoring them stubbornly and covering it up with a solid layer of insults. He didn't know how to help that part of him that loved to taunt her – he _still_ doesn't.

"What do you think I want?"

* * *

It's been seven years since their first battle. Five years since their first kiss. Three years since their first fuck. Not that he's counting. He'll bring up these odd facts intermittently, throwing her off her balance. He loves to see her stumble, her azure eyes wide with shock.

He also loves the attention they seem to garner whenever they're together. Such a _cute_ couple. Just _meant_ for each other. He'll feel a sardonic smile touch his lips. What are they? Rivals? Lovers? Friends? It's hard to decide something like that. They'll be friends when either is in need. They'll be rivals when they find themselves facing off. They'll be lovers when they find themselves in a bathroom stall, his fingers drawing patterns, lips cutting off her oxygen. And she will never deny him. She'll gasp, she'll murmur his name, she'll sink her nails into his flesh – but she will never tell him to stop.

He brings his lips to her neck, tongue leaving a hot trail. She curses under her breath.

"Don't be so vulgar," he chides.

Their sex is always angry. He's not saying it doesn't have other emotions, too – he's just saying that anger is an element always present. Whatever latent emotion she has stored up inside her – the seemingly preppy, happy-go-lucky May – will release them. When he kisses her, he can taste that longing. When he brushes his fingers against her heart, he can feel that fear. He laces one hand with hers, his kisses softening slightly.

But she doesn't want it to be soft.

* * *

"Something wrong?"

He poses the question casually. Carefully. It's not the wisest thing in the world to confront her after they've made love. She usually clams up, her face unreadable and smooth. He thinks of the May he first met: naïve, trusting, vulnerable. Here she is now… Famous. Lost. Sad.

"No."

As he expected. Her answer is short and caustic. She doesn't want to discuss anything. Not while she sits on the cold tiles, her skirt still around her waist and her top still unbuttoned. She doesn't bother to move. He watches her hollow eyes bore into the door to the bathroom, as though hoping someone will walk in and stop everything.

"Don't lie to me," he snaps back at her.

He surprises himself. He didn't expect to say anything at all to her. Usually, after they've screwed each others brains out, he'll peck her lips lightly and disappear for a few months. He won't admit it, but she is the only person he allows himself to be lost in. To just forget it all and fuck it all.

"Aren't you going somewhere?" Her voice is hoarse and angry.

It should very well be hoarse, considering all the screaming she just did. He can't understand why they love to play it like this, but he certainly won't have it any other way. He knows he drives her wild. Her lips with rove his body for ages, simply in hope of whittling him down (he must admit that it takes willpower to remain dominant). Her breasts are the most sensitive part of her body – smooth cups of carnality. One touch, one brush, and she'll be at your feet.

"I've nowhere more important to be," he replies smoothly.

* * *

The first time they had sex, it was mainly his fault. Or so she claimed afterward. They were in another one of their arguments – May insisting he had gone too far when he insulted her bandanna. (Really? How can she _still_ be wearing that piece of cloth at seventeen?) The truth was, he just wanted to get the damned thing off her. He wanted to get _every_ article of clothing off her. Until that moment, their kisses had been brief and harsh, lips clashing and tongues tussling. At every rare occurrence, they found themselves going further. His hands would wander more freely, her fingers would start to press against things she knew she shouldn't.

"You're such a _moron_." Her eyes blazed, hands on her hips. He was forced to concede her beauty, even in anger. He found himself wetting his lips subconsciously. "Why do you have to be such a _jackass_, Drew?"  
And he smiled slightly, one hand in his pocket, the other taking her waist. He pulled her against him. May was caught by surprise. He was so close to her, he could count every lash.

And when he touched her, she didn't protest. When he first kissed between her legs, she didn't protest. When he first entered her, she didn't protest. She just writhed beneath him, her body beaded with sweat, and murmured his name. By God, he loved it.

* * *

She reapplies her makeup in silence. He watches her. Two strokes of blue liner: glittery, yet subtle. A soft coat of gloss. The slight pink sheen on her lips makes him wonder if they are _truly_ finished in this bathroom. She smooths down her clothing, determined not to look at him.

"If you don't tell me," he says into her ear, "I'll make you."

His breath is warm. It's familiar. She doesn't like to think of the other girls he has bedded – of the other girls he likes to take. The thought makes her hands shake and her stomach turn. It shouldn't. Oh, it _really_ shouldn't.

But it does.

She's kept herself to him. Him and him only. He's the only one to have ever caressed her, to have ever had his name cried out in ecstasy by her. And it's true: when he's with her, she feels ecstasy. The pure, raw emotion of a climax tearing through her is what she cherishes. The way he kisses her, the way he knows where to touch her, the way he says her name.

May finds herself trembling slightly. He's pressed against her back, his deep eyes puncturing hers, arms locked around her slim waist. She can feel her entire demeanour deflate just by looking at him. He always seems to melt away at the appearances she puts up. And doesn't he just relish that fact.

"Yeah?" She says, her tone light. "How're you gonna do that, hotshot?"  
She probably shouldn't have challenged him. The thing about Drew is that he never backs down. _Ever_. If you lay it on the table, he will never disappoint. Maybe she was hoping for that – who knows?

The first kiss is soft. He always starts off soft. Drew has a special way of coaxing – he does it gently, subtly. She finds herself lost. And every time she thinks she might be able to claw her way back to reality, he'll brush against any part of her body and send a burst of pleasure curling through it.

She moans. "D-Drew, this isn't f-fair–"

She hears derisive chuckling. At once, May flares up. There's that _mocking_ – that _idiocy_ of his. She moves, wanting to pull his lips away from her neck–

"You–!"  
Her cry is harsher than usual. That's because _he_ is harsher than usual. She's not entirely sure if you're supposed to bite it so hard. She glares at him. He kisses her breast, as if apologizing. Then he admires his handiwork.

"That _hurt_, you fool," she says between her teeth.

He doesn't reply. He runs a thumb over a nipple, his eyes focused on her lips. He's smeared her gloss – his eyes are trained on a smudge of pink just below her lower lip.

"Are you going to tell me?" He says in a low voice, his fingers now running up her thigh. She finds her breath catching. She grips the edge of the marbled basin in anticipation. He flicks a finger across her opening.

"Tell me."

She doesn't know what to do. Her breathing is a little ragged, her eyes scanning his face for any signs of jest. She can find none. In the back of her mind, a tiny voice starts up an argument. _Tell him,_ it says. _Just tell him_.

But she can't. She just can't.

* * *

They were strolling along, having just entered a contest, looking for a Pokémon Center. It was a warm night – the kind that comes with summer. The air felt heavy and humid. She could already feel a trail of sweat running between her breasts, and they'd barely walked five minutes. She was trying to conjure up things to cool her down: ice cubes, glacial ponds, swimming pools, ice cream–

"May?"

She jerked out of her reverie, trying to focus on him. He didn't help to cool her down. Drew just made it innumerably worse. She tucked a strand behind her ear, ignoring the hair sticking to the back of her neck.

"Yeah?"  
"I asked if you wanted something to drink?"  
"Sure," she said. "Thanks."

If she had declined, maybe it wouldn't have happened. Maybe she wouldn't have remembered to tell Drew she wanted water, for once, instead of soda. Maybe she wouldn't have gone after him. Maybe she wouldn't have seen a girl, all eyes and boobs, approach him. Maybe she wouldn't have heard the girl ask, "Are you dating May? May Maple?" And maybe she wouldn't have heard him laugh.

Though she hates to remember it, the issue resurfaces every single time she catches a glimpse of those jade-coloured eyes. She can't contain the feelings that rumble within her – the anger, the bitter hatred, the rejection. Not for one moment did she think Drew would _laugh_ at the idea.

"Here, I got you water."  
Yet he still knew – _knows_ – her so well. He'll read her like a book. He'll throw pebbles into her tranquil waters, only to quell them a moment later. May digs her nails into her flesh whenever feelings for him rear. The tiny red crescents are angry mnemonics: she won't.

She _can't_.

* * *

And she knows very well that he'll torture her until she says something. He'll continue to stop just short of giving her the release she – suddenly – so hungrily craves. Her chest is pressed against his, heart fluttering wildly against her ribcage. Because he's still here with her, despite everything he says. He's still _here_. He is moving in and out of her slowly. The feeling is eating away at her stomach, her body aching for more. The entire thing is so primal, she is sure she will sink her teeth into him at any given moment.

"You're being," she pants, "_mean_."

"Me? _Mean_?"

The feigned innocence makes her want to hit him. She hands curl into fists, still laced around his neck. She doesn't want to look him in the eye, but she can't help but sneak peeks. Their jade colour startles her. He doesn't blink.

"Tell me," he says again, mouth on her ear. His tongue presses against the lobe.

She closes her eyes. She wants to tell him. She _wants_ to tell him. But she can't tell him. She will _never_ tell him. She has more pride – more dignity – than that. She is a famous coordinator, for Heaven's sake! She's not a snivelling schoolgirl of some sort. May refuses to kowtow to her vestigial feelings. She's been locking them away for too long to back down now.

She leans back, her eyes half-lidded, and runs a nail along his jaw. It makes sense that he is this flawless. That she should fall prey to such a beautiful man. Isn't that why she became a coordinator in the first place? May loves beautiful things. He just happens to be one of them.

* * *

It took much persuading – much fondling – for Drew to finally let her orgasm. And it felt _good_. Instead of thinking about how she wants to tell him, how she can't tell him and how stunning he is, she allowed the climax to wash it all away. All she felt was his arms, his length and his breath. All she heard was a distant crashing in the back of her mind, his lips pushed against her ear as he whispered her name.

When she _finally_ composes herself (for the second time that night, might she add), he still seems suspicious. He stands just next to her, his head cocked to one side thoughtfully. She's sure he will bring it up at any moment. And she's not sure she will be able to distract him with sex again.

"Do you remember," she chirps suddenly, "how you used to flick your hair?"  
Dear Lord, it was _annoying_. She thought she would never encounter a habit as irritating as that one. He would flick his hair casually, carelessly, as though expecting someone to take a picture. He attempts the flick now, only to end up hitting his forehead.

"Ow," he mumbles.

May giggles silently. He's been out of practice. One fateful argument, she had shouted at him, telling him that his "stupid hair-flick" was the "lamest thing on the planet" and that she would be surprised if "even the densest girl in the world found that attractive."

To which Drew replied, "Well, I'm _with_ the densest girl in the world, aren't I?"  
That night's lovemaking was particularly cruel. It got to the point of painful, yet dizzying, pleasure.

"It was an odd habit," he says, albeit a little begrudgingly.

She finds herself smiling. As proud as always, he will hardly admit error. Then again, it is rare for him to slip up.

"That's the first real smile I've gotten in a while."

She glances at him. "W-What?"

"Just saying."

* * *

He doesn't press the matter any further. They leave the bathroom together, but people do not ask. Their "complicated" relationship is something they both benefit from – it keeps too many girls from bothering him; it keeps too many feelings from bothering her. She knows exactly what is about to happen now. She slows her pace the closer they get to the route 302. She doesn't know if she is ready for this or not. But, then again, she's never been ready for it in the past.

"Don't think I've dropped it."  
She sighs. She knows he's too stubborn – too headstrong – to drop a matter he is truly interested in. It's frustrating, but it's not like she can change him.

"I know," she replies warily.

And, just for a brief moment, that smooth mask of his falls away. She sees something softer, something warmer. After having known him for all these years, she has only seen that cool exterior fall away a handful of occasions. Each time it never fails to take her breath away.

"One day, you _will_ tell me."  
It sounds more like a question than a statement, but she knows which one he intended it to be. In the warmth of the night, she can almost swear it is just her and Drew in this world. She opens her mouth, her pink lips parting, wanting – _needing_ – to finally say–

The balmy breeze carries the faint scent of flowers. In her mind's eye, she can picture that fateful night. She can hear his laughter. It sends a ripple of anger down her spine. She feels her hackles raise and her brow crease–

_No_.

She doesn't want to be angry with him. Not when he is just about to leave. She has done this countless times before: thrown a filthy remark at him and stormed off, her chest heaving and eyes stinging. She tries to rein her emotions in, thinking of all the small things he does. Whenever her Skitty is out, he'll always scratch behind her eyes. She'd watch with a faint smile as she pressed his wet nose into his hand, purring loudly. Whenever Beautifly was even slightly under the weather, he would always point May in the right direction. And whenever she felt like giving up, he'd roll his eyes dramatically, causing her blood to boil… Giving her, effortlessly, a reason to fight.

She loves him.

She hates him.

May smiles ruefully, raising one hand in farewell. "Maybe, Drew. Maybe."

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Pokémon, of course.  
**A/N:** I just wanted to write something a little darker in the May/Drew section. I think they're too stubborn to just admit they like one another. It's a pity. They could be one kickass couple._  
_


End file.
